Could He Be His Savior
by VenomousBeauty
Summary: Chris Jericho realized he took it too far with Cm Punk. The only thing is, can he make it up before it's too late? Punkicho/JeriPunk. Work In Progress Peeps : Rated M for certain things.


"You're father was an alcoholic, who let you down every step of the way and you're scared because you don't want to end up like him; but it's inevitable; because alcohol is in your blood. It's in your genes. It's a part of who you are. And that tortures you. I know you built this facade, this wall up that you're a sarcastic, anti-hero without a care in the world, but I think I found something you care about. I found something that gives you nightmares, something that terrifies you. Isn't it ironic that same alcohol you crave is the same thing that ruined you're childhood? The nightmares you must have about your father; I almost feel bad for you, Punk. Is that the reason why you have those all those tattoos? Was the pain of a tattoo needle you're only solace? You are going to drink eventually"

_You're father is an alcoholic._

The words came crashing down hard. So tough, mean, cold-hearted and violent; was how they ripped through him. He wished he didn't hear them, he wished Jericho didn't go that far, but it happened.

And he was right. He was right about everything; and right now, it bothered him more than ever to have those empty scars dug up and re-opened all because of a useless Wwe Championship bout.

Punk dug the ends of his palms into his teary, red eyes. The big, hot tears were flowing freely, rivets of the tears slipping down his flushed face. He hoped nobody saw him there, ducked near a heat vent in the abandoned arena. Everybody had been left, it was near 1:00 in the morning, but he didn't care.

He couldn't bare himself to leave. His heart had dropped to his stomach after Chris brought back those terrible, haunting memories. He was afraid if he'd fallen asleep, the same visions of his father would appear, making him cry in his sleep.

Punk sniffled and tore his hands away from his eyes, his vision blurry and stinging with tears as he glanced around the half-light hallway, the only light visible from the flickering headlight near the men's lockeroom. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to keep the tears from falling, but it was no use. They came, and they didn't stop.

He hadn't cried like this since he won the World title for the first time. He hadn't cried like this since he was a child, cowered and ducked underneath the table or bed, afraid of his father.

More deep visions of his dad appeared when he closed his eyes now, and when he opened his eyes, his father stood right in front of him. Punk couldn't think of what to do, only to let out a startled cry as he scooted away from the mirage. His father stepped towards him; Punk could smell the alcohol on his breath.

It was disgusting, and made him frightened.

"Leave me alone dad!" Punk cried as he shielded himself with his arms, shaking as he buried his head in his arms.

Moments passed and he remained un-touched. He lifted his head slowly, his vision drowned out by more tears as he tried to see the figure standing before him.

"Dad?"

The voice spoke softly, and Punk knew he recognized it from somewhere. He used his thumbs to wipe the tears building, and hiccupped softly. When he looked up to see who it was again, he got a strangely concerned look from Chris Jericho. Almost immediately, he cowered in fear, scooting towards the crates behind him. He let out strained cries, the sounds hurting his already hoarse voice.

Chris watched Punk crawl away, obviously afraid of the man. He suddenly felt rings of guilt creep upon him. What in the hell did he do? Wanting to apologize, Chris inched towards the crying man, flinching at every sob and cry emerged from him. Punk stood still as the elder men knelt down beside him, and turned away sharply, not wanting him to see his tears.

The Canadian watched him shake, in a worn out Minor Threat shirt with pressed dark denim jeans. "Phil…"

Punk heard the voice, but tried to ignore it.

"are you okay?"he asked soothingly, reaching out to touch the shivering shoulder, but it was jerked away from his touch. Jericho let out a sigh as the younger man continued to cry, before he sat himself on his ass, his back pressed up against the cold wall. The straight edge star felt the warm presence of Chris next to him, his Hugo Boss scent radiating from his body.

Wanting to what he thought was right; Chris lifted his leather-clad arm upwards, reaching out to wrap his arm around the younger male's shoulder. He felt the heaves come from the younger man, and used his other arm to pull him closer. He expected Punk to fight it, try to pull away, but he didn't get that.

Instead, Punk leaned forward in the Canadian's arms, resting his head against the strong chest before him. Jericho felt his own body tense up somewhat at the feeling of Punk snuggling into his body, his fingers starting to grip the lapels of his jacket.

The hot, stinging tears pelted on his jacket, probably going to end up ruining the leather.

But Chris could worry about that later. He looked down at him, feeling the tattooed arms slink around his abdomen, hugging his stomach tightly. He rubbed the shoulder firmly, and let out a soft breath.

Could he really be the hero? Could he be the same man that merely broke his heart and suddenly help him? He wanted to be that hero, and was going to do anything to make it happen. But it needed to start with an apology.

Could he do that?


End file.
